Small Windows
by IdleWit
Summary: He is almost the same, except for the eyes. The angels eyes are golden, but his eyes...his eyes had always been green.


**Small Windows**

_"Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind."_

_-William Shakespeare_

He thinks it's the eyes that are the worst part.

It's almost amusing, because everything else is exactly the same. The face, the voice, right down to the same scars on his knuckles, so faded you wouldn't notice them unless you knew they were there. Even his wardrobe is the same; same jacket, same shoes, same hair. It is only the eyes that are different, and they are what hurt the most.

He supposes it is some kind of cruel cosmic reminder, just to ensure he didn't grow too complacent. Because otherwise he could almost believe that this was still his brother, almost believe that it was like it had always been. After all, along with the meat suit, even his questions, his concerns, were similar...

"Have you come across any signs yet?"

"Has Lucifer contacted you?"

"You need to talk to me!"

For a second, like so many times before, it was his overbearing, annoyingly protective brother who was sitting across from him in the cheap diner, or the crappy hotel room, or the impala.

But then he looked up, he couldn't help himself, and the illusion was broken in a single glance and a fluttering of wings.

Because Dean's eyes had always been green, but Michael's...Michael's were golden.

* * *

"Is Dean still in there?"

Castiel never used to be one to question, especially not his superiors, at least not aloud. Sometimes he had doubts, but he usually brushed them aside as insignificant gnats. Then he met Dean Winchester, his first true friend, and Castiel could no longer stop wondering and challenging and questioning.

So when Michael came to give his orders to Castiel, who had been accepted back into the heavenly fold upon Dean's conditions, it is almost out of Castiel's control when the question leaves his lips.

Castiel knew he made the archangel uncomfortable. Michael would never look at him when he spoke. His monotone voice and righteous words were so different to Dean's it was almost laughable to hear them leave the same irreverent mouth. But Castiel couldn't help staring at Michael, trying to see beyond that golden sheen and light to find even a wisp of the soul he once called friend.

At the unprecedented question Michael pauses, glances up at Castiel, catching his eye for the first time. His gold gaze burns into the lesser angel, but Castiel does not look away. Michael opens his mouth, no doubt to reprimand Castiel for his impertinence, but what leaves his lips is far from a reproach.

"Cas..."

The nickname, said with Dean's familiar inflection, gives Castiel real hope, for the first time, that his friend may still exist, lying just behind those golden gates.

"Dean?"

There is a pause, it is only for a second, but it seems to hang over them for eons. A look of confusion passes over that usually immovable face, as if there is something warring within.

"Dean?!"

Castiel finally breaks the silence with a plea, eagerly hoping to appeal to something of his friend from within the shell. Not for the first time since Dean had relented, the angel found he had a yearning need to hear something from the only friend he had ever known, even if just a single word.

But the moment is broken, the face smooths over once more and those golden eyes contemplate him, unblinking.

"Castiel, do not forget who you are, or more importantly who _I_ am."

And then he turns and with a flutter of wings he is gone. Castiel stands there for a few hours, still staring at the spot, trying desperately to ascertain whether he had truly seen, if only for a moment, a flash of green in those golden eyes.

* * *

Bobby doesn't know why it visits him. It's not like Bobby is in the game anymore. He spends most of his days drowning bottles and trying to forget. The only correspondence he has with the outside world is the occasional call from Sam, still hunting, still searching for Lucifer. Bobby doesn't know what the boy hopes to achieve. He supposes he's just trying to fill his days, to forget the sacrifice his brother made so he would never be compelled to do the same. He contemplates telling Sam that alcohol would be much more effective, but the boy is probably better off on whatever quest he had undertaken, rather than rotting in a house full of unwanted memories and an unwanted visitor.

It would happen on the most odd occasions, when bacon was sizzling on the pan, when he'd just cracked open a bottle, when he was stubbornly avoiding the constantly ringing phone. At first he never heard a thing, just turned and it was standing right behind him, just watching. It was disconcerting, garnered a few imaginative swear words from him. Dean would have laughed at them, this thing just stared, it's golden eyes showing no emotion, no amusement nor disapproval. Bobby had tried abusing it out, but he was never successful, once he even tried exercising it back to heaven. After that Bobby didn't see it again for months, and a part of himself he despised, almost missed its visits. So the next time it appeared Bobby did nothing, just ignored it and continued in whatever he was doing.

Bobby often thought to ask it, why it did this, why it came, but he couldn't seem to work up the courage. No doubt Dean would have called him a lilly livered cesspool of uselessness, or maybe that's what Bobby would have called Dean. Regardless, Bobby knew Dean would probably be disappointed in him, for trying to ignore it like this, hoping, like a helpless civilian, that it would all just disappear. So, while Bobby was staring unseeingly at some game on the television and he heard the slightest flutter he could now recognise, he finally turned to the thing sitting beside him, and he offered it a beer, for Dean's sake. Because Dean had enough people who disappointed him in his short life time, Bobby didn't need to add to the list now he was gone.

"Here you go kid."

It's golden eyes looked at the beer uncomprehending and it did not take it, no doubt it considered drinking the pastime of lesser beings.

"You missed the best part of the game again, you always did push your luck and had to make that extra hamburger before half time," Bobby shakes his head and chuckles slightly, keeping his eyes firmly planted upon the screen as he felt golden orbs focused upon him.

If he didn't look at it, he could almost make himself believe that he was talking to Dean. So he didn't look and he kept on talking, having the conversation he would have had with that eejit boy. Eventually, once the game was over and Bobby's voice had faded into silence, there was the sound, the slight flutter of wings and he turned his head to see the chair beside him was empty.

After that, every time it appeared Bobby employed the same tactic, re-opening his wounds, but at least now it allowed him to leak some of the poison out. He never dared look up until he heard the flutter of its wings as it left, then he found himself staring at the empty chair, corner, desk, in silence.

Eventually Bobby found his courage again.

It was while he was working on the impala. Sam had managed to tear it up on a hunt. The kid had never been good with cars, not as good as Dean had. So Sam had left it with Bobby to fix while he'd taken off again, borrowing a foreign vehicle.

Sweat was roiling off Bobby. It was the end of the scorching day, his back and neck were aching and not for the first time did he feel his age. He had concluded it was a hopeless cause. He knew Dean could probably have fixed it, with determination and sheer stupidity, but Bobby didn't have the determination, not anymore. He straightened up in resigned defeat, rubbing the nape of neck, to be met with the sight of the sun setting over the hills of cars. And that's when he heard the now familiar flutter of wings.

"You took your time your eejit, all the hard work is almost done."

He got no answer to this, he never did.

"Course it was a waste, I suppose," he sighed, resigned, "I guess the damn things expiry date finally came around..."

Still silence. He stayed quiet for a while, leaning against the bonnet, he stared into the sunset. The light was so bright, caused his eyes to water, but he refused to look away. He felt it position itself beside him, it's shoulder almost touching his, reminiscent of another time...

And suddenly Bobby is talking like he hasn't in a long time, baring his soul almost against his own will. But it's as if he needs this, to say aloud now what he should have on so many other occasions he let slip through his foolish fingers. So he allows the words to escape.

"Do you remember how we used to do this? You, Sam and I, fixing up cars for the whole day. The work kind of bored Sam, but you, you used to love it. I think it took your mind off whatever the hell your Dad had run after hunting..." his voice breaks off there, but then he continues on. "It used to be good, almost normal like. And at the end of the day, we'd rest against the bonnet of the car, me with cold beer in hand, you kids with sodas, and we'd watch the sun set, just like this...Do you remember?"

Silence, all there is to his question, is silence.

And for the first time Bobby turns and actually looks at _him_.

"Why do you bother to come here?"

He looks at Bobby with those golden eyes, opens his mouth to reply, then shuts it again, as if he needs a moment to think. They stay like that for a while, and finally, when Bobby is about give up and go inside, he answers.

"I don't know."

He looks at Bobby, _really_ looks at Bobby, and for once his golden eyes aren't foreign, instead they were tinged with a familiar sadness, what Bobby had been feeling the moment he heard Dean had surrendered, the sadness of loss.

And then, with the flutter of wings, he is gone, leaving Bobby alone once more.

* * *

When Sam comes to pick up the impala Bobby takes him out to pay his respects to it.

Sam sits in the driver seat and Bobby feels sorry to see the kid like that, looking as if he's lost another piece of his family.

Bobby thinks to call him inside after a significant amount of time elapses, but neither of them can seem to move from the spot. Finally Sam turns the key in the ignition, as a hopeless gesture, a reminiscence of the last string to his brother.

And to both of their surprises the impala purrs to life, as if it had never been broken at all.

* * *

_A/N: No slash intended, because I personally don't see any of them that way inclined. Pretty please if you read, review, I'd really appreciate it = ).__  
_


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